


The Writer and the Thief

by elanor_pam



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanor_pam/pseuds/elanor_pam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Thief managed to escape from the scene of his latest crime, but hiding in that house by the lake would prove to be a mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Writer and the Thief

After diving into the protective darkness under the trees, the Thief turned sharply to the side, hoping to confuse his pursuers. He’d never been into that particular area, but had a good enough sense of direction; and anyway, being lost for a few hours beat being in prison for a few years, no question. 

By the time he’d stumbled into the clearing, though, he was sick of tripping on roots and running into bark. There was a small lake, but he paid it no heed, focusing entirely on the house nearby; it would make for better shelter than the forest, hands down. 

He shoved the door open, raising his gun. Belatedly it occurred him that the inhabitants must have been asleep at that time of the night, and it would have been smarter to sneak in - but soon the point was rendered moot. 

There was only one inhabitant, and he was wide awake; his back was turned to the door, bent over a table and surrounded by wads of balled up paper. Even as the Thief watched, the man made a sound of disgust, ripping a sheet in fours, balling the pieces up and tossing them angrily asde before sinking his head in his hands. 

It seemed he wasn’t even aware someone had broken in. The Thief relaxed slightly, lowering his gun a few inches and pushing the door quietly closed - but then he caught sight of something extremely bizarre. 

There was a duck in the house, nestled on a sizeable basket close to the man’s desk. Having a duck indoors wasn’t strange enough, though - strange was the way the Thief could swear it was staring straight at him, looking shocked, even. 

That thing is going to quack, isn’t it? the Thief thought to himself, and sure enough, it quacked, loudly, the dissonant sound breaking the stillness of the night like a rock into a pane of glass. 

The Writer didn’t seem at all startled by the noise, though. He straightened his back - as if suddenly aware of his bad posture - and glanced at the incongruent bird. And then he turned to look straight at the Thief, and he was young, with bags under his eyes and ink smears on his face. 

And he didn’t look at all surprised. 

The Thief raised his gun again, leveled it to the Writer’s forehead. The Writer looked fearless enough that some quick killing might be necessary. 

“Don’t try anything funny,” he warned. “Or I’ll _shoot_ .” 

The Writer only stared at him, looking almost bored. Then he turned back to his table - turned his back to the _gun_ \- and collected his quill, pulled his stack of sheets closer, dipped the quill in a pot of ink. The silence was broken by the scritch-scratch of quill on paper. 

“After wandering through the forest for longer than he cared to think about,” mumbled the Writer - no, a mumble wouldn’t be this clear, the bastard was being loud on _purpose,_ “Thief finally caught sight of a house, and thoughtlessly barged in, rudely interrupting the Writer.” 

“What--” stuttered the Thief, before he could bite back his confusion. 

“He was confused, however,” continued the Writer, a little louder, his pen scratching away with a grating sound, “because the Writer did not seem the least bit afraid of his weapon.” 

“...I’m gonna _shoot!_ ” 

“--he shouted, irrational panic welling inside him. He was so used to getting what he wanted, that the thought of an unarmed man _not_ cowering at the sight of him was simply unconceivable.” 

Thief froze. The silence stretched on, punctuated by the scratching sound of the Writer’s quill. He gritted his teeth, then, anger boiling up and swallowing his shock. 

“Humiliated anger soon replaced his fear--” declamed the Writer-- 

“I’mma shoot you, bastard!” shouted Thief-- 

“--he screamed, shrilly--” 

“I’mma really shoot!” Thief’s finger tensed on the trigger-- 

“--he screamed again, having made his decision--” 

_BANG._

“...but he missed.” 

Silence. 

“He couldn’t understand,” continued the Writer in his deep tenor. “His aim was perfect. And from such a distance, it was nearly impossible to miss anyway. Yet the Writer was alive, dictating his thoughts as if mocking him. It made _no sense_ .” 

Tap. 

“He took a step back, staggering. There was no anger left in him now, only fear. Something was happening here that went beyond his understanding, and he was buckling under the weight of the unknown.” 

Silence. 

“His mind floundered. This was madness. It couldn’t be happening. It must be a trick...” 

Silence. 

“Yes, it was most definitely a mind trick being played on him. This was clearly a learned man. Learned men could be deviously manipulative, twisting words and steering your mind to knock your wits off you and make you think whatever they wanted you to think--” 

Thief gritted his teeth-- 

“--and he wouldn’t stand to it, wouldn’t let this man mock him any further. He raised his gun again--” 

_Bang!_

“--and shot--” 

_Bang! Bang!_

“--again and again. But even through the loud, rythmic explosions--” 

_Bang! Bang!_

“--his mind couldn’t help being acutely aware of the fact that none of his bullets were connecting.” 

_Click._

“And, just like that, he was _out of bullets_ .” 

The Writer swivelled around in his chair, legs crossed and hands resting on a knee, a smirk twisting his features as if he were laughing at a particularly twisted joke. The shadows around his eyes were deep and hollow, but it might have been the candlelight shining from behind his head. 

For his part, Thief could only fall back on his bottom, gun slipping from his slack fingers. 

“Y-you’re the devil!” he stuttered, heart hammering in his chest. 

“I’m atheist,” said the young man, almost kindly - spoiled only by the manic glow in his eyes. “But you were a good warm-up, is what I’m trying to say. I’ve spent the last day or so trying to reach this frame of mind, and I couldn’t have done it if it weren’t for you.” 

Thief whimpered. 

“It figures I was going about it the wrong way, though,” he blathered on, whimsically. “I keep trying to jump headfirst into the tale--” he chuckled. “I can never stick to a process, you know. And the process is important.” 

Thief inched back on his butt. 

“I’ve really been an idiot...” he said, almost dreamily. “Jumping head-first into fantasy might have worked for _him_ , but it doesn’t work for me. To keep your feet in reality, you have to start from reality. It’s only when you have a good grip on reality that you can steer it.” 

He nodded to himself, and Thief nodded to him, eager to appear friendly and harmless. 

“The problem is, right now I really need to grab reality by the horns and turn it belly-up-- what is it, Duckie?” the duck had flapped its way to his feet, quacking anxiously. 

“What? No, I’m on a roll now!” 

More plaintive quacking. 

“I am _not_ gloating like a mad wizard. I’m just thinking out loud--” 

Emphatic quacking. 

“Not before I get started on _something_ . I think I’ve got it now, what I need is a _trilogy_ \--” 

Quack, quack. 

“Of course I won’t, it might smear the ink. Look, I know when I _really_ need rest, and it’s _not_ now.” 

Quack, quack, quack. 

The man glanced at him. “Oh, right, you’re still there.” 

“ _Eeeeee_ \--” Thief garbled out, hunching his shoulders. 

“I don’t bite, man,” he said, dismissively. “The pen is mightier than the sword, but it’s not for killing.” He swivelled back to his desk, and suddenly chuckled. “Oh, would you look at _this_ ...” 

“W-what?” Thief stuttered, discreetly putting his feet under his body, just in case he needed to bolt. 

“I’ve been writing _this whole dialogue_ down, like an idiot,” he swivelled to the side, leaning back with a tired grin. Beyond his elbow, Thief could see the creamy quill dancing back and forth on the paper, the scritch-scratching of it having seamlessly merged into the background. 

One of the writer’s hands was touching his forehead. The other was draped over the armrest. On the desk, a leaf fluttered to the side, as if blown by the wind; the quill went on writing, even though it shouldn’t have touched ink in a while. 

“Well, it’s as good as start as any,” mumbled the Writer, low enough that Thief only half-guessed the words. But it was enough for one night - Thief stumbled to his feet, trying to push through the door and pull it open at the same time. 

“Are you sure about that?” asked the Writer, without taking his eyes off the writing quill. “The city militia is right outside, at the edge of the forest, afraid you might have invaded the house of a popular writer of children’s books.” 

Thief ran out, without a second’s hesitation. 

  


Inside, the Writer leafed through sheets of disjointed dialogue, thinking to himself that it sounded like an exciting prologue for a long-running series. 

He’d been trying to force reality to bend for a long few years - but If he were subtle enough, he might be able to make it turn belly up like an eager puppy instead. And that sounded closer to what he truly wanted. Gentle magic was only fitting when it came to her. 

Duckie pecked at his shin. 

“Alright, alright,” he mumbled. “Just let me figure out a timeline, and I’ll lie down.” 


End file.
